


The Rumors Of My Death

by whimseyrhodes



Series: Pinterest Prompts [1]
Category: Leverage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimseyrhodes/pseuds/whimseyrhodes
Summary: Series: Pinterest Prompts.Prompt: “I pray you’ve never taken a breath these years without remembering the breaths you took away.”Summary: What it says on the tin. One of Eliot’s enemies finds his team and he’ll do anything to get them back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I have had a what, three year? bout of Writer's Block and have wanted to get back into the swing of things. I finally googled 'writing prompts' and got sucked into Pinterest (Holy CRAP that place can keep me captive for DAYS) and found a bunch of prompts that have given me idea after idea. Here's hoping that the ideas will turn into bunnies then turn into drafts then turn into stories for all of you! I'm going to set them all into a series called 'Pinterest Prompts'. Most will probably be one shots, but some will be multi-chaps.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Eliot walked back toward the brewhouse, tray of drinks in one hand and his Red Eye in the other. Hot chocolate for Parker (he shuddered at the thought of peeling her off the ceiling later) and Hardison, French Roast-black for Nate, and a Tall Non Fat Half-caf Creme Brulee Latte No Foam but Extra Whipped Cream with a shot of Pumpkin in it for Sophie. Good God, he’d turned fifty shades of red when he put that order in, having to take out his phone to read the memo because Heaven forbid he get it wrong again. He was still pouring her goddamned tea for her when he wasn’t paying attention.

His hip buzzed and then he heard Born To Be Wild play obnoxiously loud and he cursed Hardison for getting to his ringtones yet again while he tried to juggle the tray and his coffee at the same time. Finally he managed to balance the drink on a storefront windowsill with his shoulder and growled into the phone. “What?!”

The answer was a little delayed but then came across, filled with humor. “Always the gentleman, aren’t you?”

He frowned at the naggingly familiar voice, not recognizing it at first. It was Italian, he could tell that right away, and male, the tone a tenor. “Who is this?”

“I’m upset that you don’t recognize me, Eliot. Or should I say….Marco?”

Eliot’s lungs froze for a moment before kicking back in. “Calabrese,” he forced out.

“Giovanni, please. I prefer the way it was between us, Eliot. Well, before everyone was dead, that is.”

“What the hell do you want, asshole?”

“Huh,” Calabrese sounded minorly offended. “I suppose I should have expected that, with your temper. Very well.” The man sighed. “I’d like to meet.”

“In hell,” came the annoyed answer.

“I do wish you hadn’t done that. But it’s not….your funeral. Not this time.” With that, the line went dead and Eliot’s brain kicked into overtime. He dropped the tray of coffees and bolted to his truck, his Red Eye balancing on the windowsill for a moment before tumbling down to spill onto the sidewalk with the others.

The Bronco started with a grumble and then roared as Eliot stomped his foot down, wrenching the wheel and whipping a u-turn right out of the parking spot. Honks, angry yells and one-fingered salutes followed him. Driving like a maniac and hoping against hope that he wasn’t too late, he tore into the brewpub’s parking lot and slammed the truck into park, the vehicle still tic-tic-ticking as he jumped out and raced for the doors. 

This early in the day the Pub wasn’t open, which was a good thing because the hitter wasn’t in the mood to slow down for anybody. He tore through the seating area and the employees scattered, both at the force of his running and the angry, angry look on his face. 

His boots thundered on the treads as he scrambled up the stairs. Hardison was going to laugh himself inside out if he was wrong, and Eliot prayed that he was. Slamming the door open he first caught sight of the rest of the team sitting down, their heads turned toward him with looks of surprise on their faces. He felt relieved for a split-second until he saw that they were sitting in chairs, in a line, their hands cuffed behind them. All but Parker, who was trussed up with duct tape and looking perturbed.

“Eliot,” he heard Calabrese purr, and he looked to see the man standing at the far end of the room, closest to Parker. Hardison was beside her, with Nate in the middle and Sophie closest to Eliot by the door.

“Giovanni. You gotta know what I’m gonna say.”

The black haired Italian tilted his head, smiling with mirth. “ ‘Let them go,’” he mocked. “ ‘I’ll do anything,’ ‘They never hurt you.’ Yes, yes, I know what you want to say. Tiresome, really.”

“Wasn’t in the job description, huh?” Eliot snarked, taking one step closer to him.

“Uh, uh, uh…” Calabrese shook a finger at the hitter, one hand still behind his back, and Eliot stopped, his eyes narrowing. “I know all about you and your ‘range of efficacy’. Hands behind your back.”

Eliot growled, his lip curling up but complied. He’d heard three distinct breathing patterns behind him and one stepped closer. He tensed for movement but stopped as he saw Calabrese’s right hand fall from behind his back, a Glock now pointing at Parker’s head.

The hitter’s lips pressed together. He was stuck and he knew it. Worse, Calabrese did, too. Hands grabbed his wrists and cuffs snapped around them, the metal cold on his hot skin. He tested them out of habit and the links holding them together clinked.

“Will you still do anything for them?” Calabrese asked, his voice softer now.

“Yes.”

“Come closer. Three steps.”

Eliot obeyed, his steps taking him past Sophie in the line so that he stood before Calabrese with Nate and Hardison on his left. The gun left Parker and pointed at the hitter’s head now.

“Do you want to tell them, or should I?” the other man said, his eyes now going cold.

“Hey man, you don’ gotta do this,” Hardison piped up.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do,” the man countered. “You see, I met Eliot, only then he was Marco, I met Eliot years ago, when we were both much, much younger. Father wanted me to take over the family restaurant, but I just wanted to drink. I had no head for business or sales or cooking, only for bourbon. But Eliot. He comes in and tries the Ricotta Gnocchi and, oh, he makes the biggest noise about how bad it is, how little seasoning, on and on and on…”

“Yeah, I can believe that,” the hacker muttered and Eliot chanced a look, shooting daggers at him. Hardison shrugged. “What? I can.”

Calabrese frowned at the interaction but went on. “So Frankie, Frankie dares him to come back and make it better and he does. He does! He added this and that and Mama Mia! The flavors! I thought he was a gift God dropped down for us.”

“It this a reunion?” Parker piped up. “Are you gonna ask Eliot to cook something? ‘Cause he cooks really well! I love his pancakes, and his waffles, Oh! And the spaghetti! Maybe you want him to make you some spaghetti?”

“Parker!” Eliot snapped.

“What are you…?” Calabrese made a face at her. “No, dammit! I don’t want him to cook; I want to kill him!”

“ ‘Cause you don’t like his spaghetti?”

The Italian made a frustrated noise and turned his attention back to Eliot, who kind of shrugged. “No.” The narrative continued, this time softer. “No, he came to work for us, with us, and everything he touched turned to gold. The restaurant, we became famous, only Marco here, Marco, he didn’t like talking to anyone. Press, newspapers, they wanted to talk to the chef who had turned this hole-in-the-ground into the only restaurant to go to in Sicily. Shy, he said. Didn’t like strangers, he said.”

Calabrese paused and Eliot swallowed, closing his eyes and hanging his head. The hitter knew what was coming next.

“So grandpop comes in. He’d never been there; I never met him before. Pop told me he was a recluse. Kind of like Marco, Grandpop didn’t like strangers, but he had to see. Had to see what masterpieces were being cooked up in the restaurant that bore his name.” Calabrese stepped closer to Eliot, putting the muzzle of the gun to his forehead. “You bastard. You lied. You laid in wait for Grandpop, for Luciano Marchesi.”

Nate inhaled at the name and the other three looked at him questioningly. “Luciano Marchesi. One of the highest-ranking Dons in the Marchesi Crime Family. The whole family was wiped out in ’96.”

“Oh, what, you couldn’t find a more bloodthirsty group of individuals?” Hardison complained to the hitter, who slanted another glare his way. 

“My family!” Giovanni roared, wildly jabbing the gun at Eliot. “My family! You took out not only grandpop, but everyone who was there. Grandpop. Mama! Papa! Cousins, aunts and uncles. Little children like Andelina, she was only three years old! I saw you! I saw you take the shot that detonated that bomb! You didn’t know that I was looking for you, did you? That Frankie had been asking when you’d show so you could meet the family. You were in the church! The godddamned CHURCH!”

Eliot bit his lower lip and nodded slightly. “Yes.” His voice was rough and nearly silent, but they all could hear it as he looked up from under his bangs. “Moreau wanted Luciano dead. He was interfering with his money laundering in Sicily and wouldn’t listen to the warnings. I was to...make a point.”

“Make a point!” Calabrese hissed at the same time that Nate muttered, “It always comes back to Moreau,” and Parker complained, “Should’a stabbed him.”

“You made that point, Spencer. Everyone. Dead.”

“Frankie?” Eliot dared to ask. “Did….”

“The blast caught Frankie. Tried to go out the back door, but the fireball….”

Eliot’s face was pinched and pale. 

“Caught me,” he heard the silken voice behind him. “But didn’t kill me, even though I prayed over and over that it would, after.”

The rest of the team looked over to where a woman came into the room from where she’d stood back, listening from the other room for her moment. 

“But you’re a girl,” Parker said, her face twisted in confusion. “Who named you a boys’ name?”

“Francesca,” Calabrese said. “My sister. Francesca Calabrese.”

The woman sketched a brief curtsey, watching the stiff line of Eliot’s back. She walked around the front of the hitter and he glanced over, his eyes turning sad. Where porcelain skin had been, rough blisters covered her face, twisting her mouth to one side. Her hair, once gloriously long and deep brown, grew in short patches over a tough, scarred scalp. She walked with a limp, one disfigured hand latched around the head of a cane.

“Frankie…” Eliot breathed.

“Not the catch of the neighborhood now, am I?” she asked bitterly. “I’ll bet you’d never even look twice at me anymore. Not like you did.”

Eliot had the grace to look down, ashamed.

She shook her head and frowned. “I pray you’ve never taken a breath these years without remembering the breaths you took away.”

Hardison was close enough to see a tear track down Eliot’s cheek and his eyes widened in shock at the hitter’s obviously deep emotions. But then Eliot’s head snapped to the side as Francesca slapped him.

“Damn you! You don’t have the right to cry for them! You slaughtered an entire family, men, women, children! Generations, just wiped out at one squeeze of your finger.”

Eliot’s head was pushed back to an impossible angle as Giovanni shoved the gun into his forehead again. “I thought of doing what you did. Wait until you were all here, blow up this whole damn building, but that would be too easy for you. You wouldn’t know why, you wouldn’t know who. You’d just be dead. And that’s not enough. Then I wanted to kill these four in front of you but I’m not a killer. I’m not the cold-blooded murderer you are.”

“Giovanni….” Eliot started, his eyes closed. 

“No. Murderer,” Francesca hissed, her impaired hand tightening on the head of the cane. “You’re going to die. And I’m going to watch you die, just like I watched our family, ten yeas ago.”

Giovanni motioned and the two of them stepped back, then he raised the gun, pointing it at Eliot’s head.

Three things happened nearly at once: Parker screamed, Eliot twitched, and the gun went off. Then his head flew back, a spray of blood arcing above and behind him as he fell back, his body slamming onto the floor and bouncing just a little. The team stared at the gruesome sight of Eliot stretched out on the floor, his head lying in a steadily expanding pool of blood.


	2. The Rumors Of My Death, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Eliot’s enemies finds his team and he’ll do anything to get them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I pray you’ve never taken a breath these years without remembering the breaths you took away.”

Three things happened nearly at once: Parker screamed, Eliot twitched, and the gun went off. Then his head flew back, a spray of blood arcing above and behind him as he fell back, his body slamming onto the floor and bouncing just a little. The team stared at the gruesome sight of Eliot stretched out on the floor, his head lying in a steadily expanding pool of blood.

Calabrese lowered the gun, and with one final look at the rest of them, walked out of the room with his sister leaning on his arm, the three muscled goons following behind.

“Eliot…Oh, my God… Nate, Nate, what are we going to do?” Sophie whispered, tears rolling down her face. Parker was crying hysterically, pulling frantically at the tape that held her to the chair. Nate stared at the downed hitter in shock as Hardison trembled violently, shaking his head, his eyes closed in denial.

“What…we can’t…” the hacker said, his voice cracking as he blinked hard, his vision wavering through the tears. “He…God, he’s dead… Nate, he’s dead!”

Nate sat motionless with his mouth open, staring at Eliot’s body, unable to answer the others.

Parker gave up pulling at the tape holding her to the chair and rocked back and forth as much as the bindings would allow, a high pitched keening coming from her throat. Her eyes were clenched shut against the tears, and suddenly she let out a pain filled scream.

A groan and then a pissy growl came from the amazingly still alive hitter. “Shut up, my head’s killin’ me…”

“Eliot!!!” four voices yelled at once, their eyes whipping to the hitter as he slowly, painfully rolled onto his side, blood soaking his hair and dripping down his face. His hands moved and Parker saw a lock pick appear from his cuff and then the manacles dropped off. 

Eliot groaned as he moved his arms to his sides, struggling to push himself up against the blackness that was hovering around the edges of his vision. His head was ringing loudly, distracting him and making it hard to concentrate. He moved by feel, one hand waving shakily in the air as he searched, then resting on the floor as he pulled himself forward by his elbows. His eyes were closed against the spinning room and he finally felt someone’s shoe under his hand.

“Eliot… Oh, god….Eliot,” Parker said shakily, swallowing the sob in her throat as she watched the wounded, disoriented man crawl blindly to her side. His fingers touched her Converse and paused, then traveled up until he reached the tape around her ankle. She could almost feel his confused, slow tracking as he identified her shoe, and then the tape. 

Eliot groaned, letting himself fall to his side and propping himself on one elbow. The sudden motion made the throbbing in his head increase a few notches and he grabbed onto the chair leg, squinting his eyes shut harder. He panted through gritted teeth, willing the nausea away. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a small knife and snapped it open. He dared to open his eyes and moved the knife slowly toward Parker’s ankle, his vision wavering in sickening loops. 

Parker pulled her ankle away from the knife and made the tape tight, holding as still as she could, knowing that he was seeing at least double with the head injury.

“You can do it, man,” Hardison encouraged, “Just a little more.”

Eliot squinted and slit the tape, Parker’s tugging making it separate quickly. He moaned softly, his head dropping down to the floor but he shook off the haze because he knew he wasn’t done. Managing to push back onto his elbows, he crawled around behind her, the process starting over as he worked on her wrists. 

The moment Parker’s hands were freed, she bent down and ripped the tape from her other ankle and then dashed around to Eliot. The hitter tensed slightly at her touch but then fell back, dropping heavily into her arms.

“Eliot?” she asked, her trembling fingers brushing his hair back as his head hung loosely over her elbow. “El?”

“Parker!” Nate called. “Get us loose! We need to help him!”

The thief looked up and stared for a moment before seeming to shake herself awake, then gently lowered Eliot to the floor, her hand behind his head. Then she jumped over to Hardison, pulling her lock picks from where she hid them in her waistband and knelt behind him for a moment. By the time the hacker had brought his wrists around to rub them, she was unlocking Nate’s cuffs, and then Sophie’s. Within forty-five seconds all three were free and rushing toward Eliot.

“Easy,” Nate said unnecessarily, reaching for the hitter. Eliot twitched at the light touch and then moaned softly, his hand rising for a moment and then falling back onto the floor. “Sophie, towels!”

The grifter dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of towels. Running back, she saw that they’d straightened Eliot’s limbs and laid him flat on the floor. Nate’s hands were holding the hitter’s head and there was another pool of blood slowly growing under him. Sophie dropped to her knees and handed one of the towels to Nate, who pressed it against Eliot’s temple with a blood covered hand.

Eliot moaned long and low, trying to pull away from the pain but Hardison and Parker were beside him, holding onto his arms and shoulders. Normally the hitter would have had no problem pushing them off, but his balance and coordination were so shot that his hands just flailed uselessly.

Parker wrapped her hands around one of his as he arched his back, trying to wriggle away, his moans nearly constant. Her eyes flicked up to Nate worriedly.

“No ‘ospital…” Eliot muttered in between gasps. “No….no hhh-hospital…please…” He opened his eyes and pinned Nate with his gaze, begging. The mastermind’s lips pressed into a thin line but he nodded, reluctantly.

Eliot cried out softly then, his eyes screwing shut and his shoulders arching as he swallowed thickly.

“Hardison, get the trash can, hurry! He’s gonna be sick!” Nate said quickly, and the hacker scooted over to the computer desk, grabbing the small container with his hand and pulling it back.

Nate and Parker lifted Eliot up, turning him slightly. Nate held his head over the waste basket as Eliot threw up, his whole body convulsing in their hands. When he seemed done, Sophie leaned forward and wiped his face as the other two lowered him down again.

“We need to get him comfortable, on the couch or something.”

“My bed,” Hardison said. “He can have my bed.”

“Alright. Soph, will you go and turn it down, put towels over the pillows?”

The grifter nodded at the request and hurried off. They could hear her heels clicking into the bedroom.

“Parker, take over here and hold these towels against the wound. Hardison and I will carry him.”

Parker placed her hands where Nate’s were and they switched places; she held onto Eliot’s head and kept it steady as the other two men lifted the hitter.

“Dayum,” Hardison grunted, relief bringing back his motormouth. “Man don’t need to be workin’ out no more. He’s too damn heavy as it is!”

With Nate and Hardison on either side and Parker at his head, they carried Eliot carefully into the bedroom and laid him onto the bed. Nate had grabbed the knife Eliot dropped and now used it to pop the buttons off of his plaid overshirt.

“Somebody raise his legs,” he said and Hardison leapt forward, gently lifting the hitter’s legs so Sophie could stack some pillows underneath.

With his legs raised, Nate covered Eliot with the comforter and a blanket to hopefully ward off shock, then he and the others sat down to monitor the hitter closely.

After an hour of tense waiting, Nate leaned forward and put his hand on Eliot’s shoulder, resting it there for a moment before squeezing a little. There was no response and he felt his stomach drop. He shook Eliot gently.

Eliot’s breathing hitched and he moaned, moving a little under the blankets.

“Eliot…come on, Eliot, wake up,” Nate said strongly. “Wake up or we’ll have to take you to the hospital anyway.”

The hitter’s eyes remained shut, but he pulled his shoulder away from Nate’s shaking hand a little. Nate could see Eliot’s eyes moving under his lids, which clenched tighter every now and then as if he was trying to wake up.

Nate reached out and squeezed his shoulder again and this time Eliot turned toward the mastermind with a frown on his face. Slowly Eliot’s eyes opened a crack, then a little more. He moaned again and shut his eyes but Nate squeezed again. 

“…don’….” Eliot moaned softly.

“Come on, El, ya gotta wake up, show us those baby blues ya got goin’ on there,” Hardison said, leaning over from behind Nate.

Sophie put her hand on his leg and squeezed and the hitter grumbled, pulling away again, but it made him open his eyes.

Nate watched as Eliot’s eyes opened and focused with difficulty. He was pleased to see the pupils contract evenly, albeit slowly. “Eliot, can you tell me what day it is?” he asked.

Now the hitter stared blankly, no recognition of the question.

“Eliot, what day is it?” Nate asked again.

Nothing.

“Nate…?” Parker’s voice trembled. “Why isn’t he talking? Is something wrong with him?”

Nate tried once more. “Eliot, if you can’t answer me, we’re going to have to go to the hospital anyway.”

Eliot’s eyes were following the mastermind’s lips, and he could figure out a word or two, but the incessant ringing and pounding in his head made it hard for him to concentrate. He recognized ‘hospital’ and started to shake his head but then winced, scrunching his eyes closed.

“‘M sorry, Nate, I can’t hear a word you’re sayin’. But no hospital. You promised.”

“Can’t hear?!” Hardison yelped, standing up straight, his head whipping around to look at all of them. “Can’t hear? We gotta take him to the hospital, man! Somethin’s really wrong! If he ain’t right in the head, who’s gonna ‘Dammit, Hardison’ me anymore? Ain’t no one got that growl, even if he ain’t right in the head anyway…”

“No, no,” Nate said calmly. “The gun was so close to his head that it temporarily destroyed his hearing. It should come back in a couple of days, I think. If it doesn’t get better, or if he gets confused, then we’ll take him in.” He felt Hardison relax a little behind him as he watched Eliot’s reactions to them all. The hitter had opened his eyes in the middle of Hardison’s rant.

“Dammit, Hardison,” Eliot growled tiredly. “Shut up.”

Sophie choked on a surprised laugh, coughing a little as she teared up. “He’s okay,” she whispered, smiling at Hardison’s indignant look. She wasn’t fooled; she saw the relieved and happy glimmer in the man’s eyes.


End file.
